Body High 17: Working straight, for the children
I’m a little edgy, but that’s probably fine
I used to be a one-for-the-road guy. Like, back at my 2021 crib, the 100-year-old factory in LA’s Arts District.
When I was off to the the Central Library or the gym on Sunset or or heading outside of LA proper to do something with my sons, I’d exit my apartment and walk through these halls, down the stairs, and almost always smoke a third of a joint once I hit 7th Street’s sidewalk.
With the exception of a barback gig here or a public speaking assignment there, my work life has thrived when the primacy of my voice is unquestioned.
The fact of a job being my destination has almost never deterred my intention to alter the ol’ consciousness. With possibly all 20 or so Oregon Humanities Conversation Project assignments, I’d down an airline-size bottle of vodka before meeting the public, mainly in libraries. For my 2014 Bard gig it was a shot of whiskey at the campus Two Boots. Prior to reading from Ghetto Celebrity at The New School, I did a couple of lines in the bathroom of a restaurant around the block.
But I would never show up buzzed for my present part-time job at the elementary school.
Weed access is unlimited where I presently stay. And the very last thing Mr. Alexander’s 2024 work life needs is a bunch of fifth-graders having an edge on him.
I specifically coordinate after-school activities for about 20 students. There are interactions with 20 to 30 others. The work hasn’t completely stopped feeling like cosplay as a person who gives an actual fuck. I put on my lanyard and continue to strain to see what matters in the world beyond my nose.
More and more though? This day gig is giving a free course in the value of young knowledge. Closely watching kids learn and develop in a range of ways—through the substance of games, through play’s social components—has provided rare access to unspoiled humanity. The banter with every kid is bespoke. They tend to volley back my conversation in strange and improved condition.
Each weekday I ponder how potential-packed children become shitty adults.
Which is not to say that my students don’t sometimes act super stupid. Last week there was a reprimand because I responded to mindless bullying with too-vivid language. Too loud, too, supposedly. I’ll have to tone down that weapon known as the Dad-Plus voice.
Once again, I am straight…
…and just a tad edgy in my approach to this nearly two-month-old job.
No, the adjustment has not been easy. With the exception of a barback gig here or a public speaking assignment there, my work life has thrived when the primacy of my voice is unquestioned. Talk that’s not reporting can be a chore; I have to suck it up big time to talk to many people.
My young charges are fine, but the colleagues make too much volume. Once upon a time I would preemptively announce that I would not be remembering your name. I was so stoned and happy. Now, work life is insisting I get a grip on the interacting-with-colleagues thing.
‘Bespoke’
That’s the word I’ve been searching for. It’s the kind of reportage that I aim to serve. An absence of bespoke product is the source of my antipathy for the New York Times.
Rather than a steady diet of official truths, wouldn’t you rather munch on lovely, homemade journalism. Yum!
Earlier this month, I nearly ditched the playground job for a writing hideout opportunity Oregon, because LA is keeping me so fucking poor. Before that, I considered making a Hail, Mary run for Manhattan, to see if I could make something career-enhancing happen.
On Friday, my playground jumper was just living at the bottom of the net. I was ruining a 10-year-old boy’s day, and it was awesome. The only THC inside of me was 12 hours old.
I had thought cannabis was necessary to get a stroke so wet. That was before receiving this elementary school education. As long as lessons like this are available? I plan to see where this adventure in consciousness might take me.